And with that, Tyrande turned. Maiev eyed her brother with what Jarod realized was confidence in him.
As his sister followed Tyrande, he saw that Shandris Feathermoon had been standing behind her. The departing novice gave Jarod an unabashed smile that made him more uncomfortable than the presence of the nobles and the sorcerers, yet, at the same time added to the lightening of his heart.
Blackforest cleared his throat. Jarod quickly returned to the matter at hand. “You’ve heard the voice of the Mother Moon and I couldn’t agree more with her words. What say you?”
Blackforest opened his mouth, but Dath’Remar managed to answer before the armored aristocrat could utter a sound. “We greatly respect the word of the high priestess and will do what we can to make further amends for our past transgressions… if we will be permitted the opportunity by our august companions.”
The lead noble let out a grunt. “We will do no less. If the Highborne have seen the error of their ways, we will accept their return to the fold and welcome their effort as we all seek to rebuild our home.”
Both answers were spoken with some lingering animosity, but it was the best that Jarod could hope for at this point. There would be confrontations ahead, but perhaps none that would drag his people down to oblivion.
“I thank you all for coming and for seeing reason. Let us now begin to consider how best to take advantage of the miracle that’s let us survive.”
Several voices from both factions began speaking at once, each trying to come up with better ideas than the others. Jarod grimaced, then started trying to pick out the best ones.
One immediately caught his attention. “Water!” he interrupted. Something that had been reported to him by a scout came to mind. A lake at the very top of Hyjal. It was worth investigating. He decided to do so himself, though, if only to gain some reprieve from all his other responsibilities. “Lord Blackforest! I’d like three volunteers from among you! I’ve a short excursion in mind…” To Dath’Remar, he added, “From your group, too…”
As they chose from among themselves, Jarod congratulated himself. The excursion would also be a good opportunity to force the parties to work together. It was a safe, quiet event, but one, because of the importance of water, that would resound well among his people. If the nobles and sorcerers reported the findings together, the rest would see that cooperation was possible.
Jarod fought back a smile. Perhaps he was finally learning about leadership after all…
* * *
“Malfurion…”
The druid tore his gaze from the new sea. “Master Krasus.”
The dragon mage grimaced. “Equals need no title between one another. Please, for the last time, I am merely Krasus.”
“I will try.” Unconsciously, Malfurion took a step back from his friend. “Did you want something?”
“No… but they do.”
A great beating of wings filled the night elf’s ears. Dust arose around him and suddenly three gargantuan forms alighted behind the cowled figure.
Alexstrasza. Ysera. Nozdormu.
“You know why we have come,” the red female said softly.
Malfurion’s hand slipped to the pouch at his side. “You want it. You want the Soul.”
“The Demon Soul,” Krasus corrected. “You forgot to give it over to the Aspects once we landed. The heat of the moment, no doubt.”
“Yes… yes…” The druid’s hand thrust into the pouch. His fingers encircled the disk, caressing it in the process. Why did he have to give it up? Had he not proven that he had the right to it? Had he not singlehandedly used it to rid Kalimdor of not one menace, but two?
“Malfurion…”
If they felt that they deserved it more than him, why did he not just make them try to take it? Between his own skills and the power of the Soul, he could surely slay them all —
Disgust filled the druid. He quickly drew the damnable disk from its hiding place, then held it out for the mage to take.
Krasus nodded. “I knew you would make the correct decision.” Yet, he did not accept the Demon Soul directly, instead pointing to the ground. “Please place it there.”
Brow arched in curiosity, Malfurion obeyed. The moment that the disk left his grasp, he felt as if a tremendous weight lifted from his back.
“Step away, please.”
When the night elf had obeyed, Krasus faced the three Aspects. “Will your power be enough?”
“It will have to be,” replied Nozdormu.
The trio arched their necks, bringing their colossal heads within inches of the Demon Soul.
“We cannot bind it completely,” Alexstrasza uttered. “That is beyond even all of us put together. Yet, we can ensure that Neltharion — Deathwing — cannot wield it any better than us.”
“A wise maneuver, as I said,” Krasus responded. Yet, Malfurion sensed again that the cowled figure, the dragon in mortal form, held back important information from even the queen he so obviously adored. What it was, the night elf could not even hazard, but there was a sadness in Krasus’s ancient eyes that the mage quickly hid whenever the leviathans glanced his way.
The three giants stared at the tiny object, the simple golden disk that had caused so much calamity. They stared at it… and the Demon Soul was suddenly engulfed in a rainbow of energies. Dominating were red, green, and the brilliant bronze of the sandy Nozdormu. The Demon Soul rose several inches off the ground, hovering just before the Aspects. The magical forces unleashed by the dragons circulated around it, in the process turning the disk over and over.
Then… one by one, those energies sank into the black dragon’s abomination. Red, then green, then bronze, followed by the myriad colors accompanying each.
The spellwork ceased. The Demon Soul dropped, clattering on the hard ground. It looked unchanged, undiminished.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“It has.” Krasus met the druid’s eyes. “Malfurion, I ask you to pick it up again.”
Loathe as he was to touch the piece, the night elf acquiesced. Oddly, Malfurion discovered that he had no more desire to keep the Demon Soul. Either the dragons had made that so or his will had grown stronger.
The mage glanced at the Aspects, who nodded in unison. To Malfurion, he respectfully said, “There is a place we know. A place the black one would not. With your permission, we will show it to you in your mind… and then I ask that you call upon your own skills to send that foul thing there.”
Although he felt capable of doing as Krasus asked, Malfurion frowned. “Can’t you do it?”
“Before, I alone might have been able to carry the disk, albeit with difficulty. The others, they could not because of Deathwing’s handiwork. Now, this new spell has made it impossible for the black one or any other dragon to touch the Demon Soul, much less use it. That is why we need you for this.”
Nodding, the druid held out the disk. “Show me.”
Krasus and the Aspects stared deep. Malfurion shook momentarily as they entered his thoughts.
The image they created was so vivid that he almost felt as if he had visited it himself. Eager to be rid of the Demon Soul, the druid quickly said, “I have it.”
With much relief, Malfurion sent the golden disk away.
Krasus exhaled. “Thank you.”
The Aspects nodded their heads in gratitude. Then, Alexstrasza looked to the sky. “The clouds… they are beginning to part…”
Sure enough, for the first time since the Burning Legion had come to Kalimdor, the sky finally started to clear. It began as small gaps here and there, then large, thick clouds broke into much smaller, thinner ones. Those, in turn, became silken wisps easily scattered by soft winds.
Malfurion felt a sudden rising of hope, of renewed life… and realized that it was not only his own, but that of the land itself. Kalimdor would survive, of that he was certain.
A warmth touched his forehead, a pleasant warmth. He reached up and realized that his antlers had grown more. Now small on
es jutted from the main stems.
Ysera, her eyelids shut but her eyes moving rapidly underneath, stretched to her full height, then turned to face her fellow Aspects.
“The world will heal, but there is much more work to do. We should return to the others…”
Nozdormu nodded. “Agreed.”
Malfurion opened his mouth to thank the dragons for all that they had done… then hesitated as a sense of unease swept over him. He looked around suddenly, as if seeking someone. Only after doing so did the druid at last realize just who it was he sought so desperately, although the reason why still escaped him.
Where was Illidan?
Rhonin eyed the sea, thinking of all the deaths he had witnessed — both in his own time and in this period — at the hands of the Burning Legion. Many of them had affected him deeply, for, if several had not been friends, they had at least been parts of his life.
He knew that Krasus felt the same, perhaps even more so, for the dragon mage had lived long enough to lose generations of loved ones and companions. The wizard understood his former mentor well enough to realize that the centuries had not made Krasus immune to sorrow. The cowled spellcaster suffered deeply with each death, however much he hid those emotions at times.
And now, there was yet another to add to the losses. Rhonin had never thought to mourn an orc, but he did. Brox had become a stalwart comrade, a noble companion. Only belatedly had the human understood the warrior’s sacrifice. The orc had dropped himself through the portal knowing that horrible doom awaited him there, yet, Brox had not hesitated. He had been aware that Malfurion needed time and time the orc had granted the druid.
Rhonin knelt by the edge of the sea, the creation of which he saw in some ways as a tribute itself to Brox. It would not have existed without the orc’s action. Undelayed, Sargeras likely would have stepped through the gateway, then slaughtered everyone.
Did Brox bring history back to what it should be or was he part of it all along? the wizard wondered. Perhaps Nozdormu knew, but the Aspect of Time was not about to tell anyone. He had not even spoken of his own ordeal save that it had involved the Old Gods. Now, with the portal gone, even that threat had been removed.
Standing again, the wizard eyed the flotsam still flowing toward the shore. The tide brought in a variety of things, bits of plants, mostly, but also wreckage from the night elves’ realm. Shreds of clothes, broken pieces of furniture, rotting food, and, yes, there were bodies. Not many, thankfully, and none at this spot. Jarod had parties scanning the shore, seeking any dead so that they could have swift but proper burials. It was not just a matter of propriety, but safety, too. The dead might carry with them disease, a very real fear for the refugees.
Something floated near the wizard, bobbing up and down twice before settling just under the surface. Rhonin would have ignored it, but sensed something unusual. The thing had a touch of magic to it.
Stepping into the water, he reached down.
Brox’s ax.
There could be no mistaking it. Rhonin had seen the astonishing weapon in action enough times. Despite its tremendous size, the double-edged ax fit perfectly in his grip and felt as light as a feather. It did not even feel wet.
“This isn’t possible,” he muttered, eyeing the sea suspiciously.
But no spirit arose from the depths to give a reason for the amazing discovery. The wizard looked down at the ax, then at the sea, and lastly at the ax again.
Finally, Rhonin stared off into the direction of the lost portal. An image of Brox standing atop slaughtered demons and challenging more to come to him filled the human’s thoughts.
The wizard suddenly raised the ax high in what he recalled from his own time as an orcish salute to fallen heroes. Rhonin brandished it three times, then lowered the ax head-first.
“They’ll sing of you yet,” he whispered, recalling Brox’s words to both him and Krasus. “They’ll pass songs of you down for generations to come. We’ll see to that.”
Hefting the ax over his shoulder, he went to find Krasus.
Twenty-Two
I llidan dismounted, his wrapped eyes surveying the thick forest for any threat. Of course, even had there been one, he had no doubt as to his ability to deal with it. The Well might be gone, but he had learned enough from Rhonin and the Burning Legion to make up for much of its loss. Besides, in a few minutes, even that consideration would be of no consequence.
The sorcerer tied his mount to a tree. Jarod Shadowsong and the others in charge of the host were busy arguing about mundane matters such as food and shelter. Illidan was more than happy to leave such petty things to others. He had come to this place for a far more important reason, one that he felt outshone all others.
He intended to salvage the lifeblood of the night elves.
They were all naive, so Malfurion’s twin had decided, if they did not believe that the demons would someday return. Having tasted Kalimdor once, the Burning Legion would be eager for a second bite. Next time, they would strike in a far more terrifying manner, of that he was certain.
And so, Illidan planned to be prepared for that coming invasion.
The pristine lake buried deep atop Hyjal’s highest peak had survived the onslaught undiscovered by either the defenders or the demons. A green, idyllic island lay at the very center. Illidan saw it as fate that he had been the one to come across the body of water first. It suited his desires perfectly.
He touched the thick pouch at his waist. The precious contents within called to Illidan. Their siren song assured the sorcerer that he had made the right decision. His people would fall over themselves in their gratitude and he would stand among them as one of their greatest heroes, possibly even more so than Malfurion.
Malfurion… his twin was honored by all as if he alone has saved the world. The people gave Illidan some crumb of recognition, but many misunderstood what the sorcerer had attempted to do. Rumors swelled that he had gone to the demons to truly join them and that only his brother had saved his soul from damnation. All Illidan’s own efforts went unappreciated. His eyes — his glorious eyes — were only seen by the rest as a mark of his supposed pact with the lord of the Legion.
His so-perfect brother spoke pretty words about him to the public, but that only made Malfurion look magnanimous. Even the antlers sprouting from his twin’s forehead did not disgust the dainty night elves. They embraced it as a sign of divinity, as if Malfurion now stood as one of the demigods… the same demigods who had perished so easily in battle while Illidan had survived and thrived.
It’ll all change, though, he told himself, not for the first time. They’ll see what I’ve done… and thank me a thousand times over.
Anticipation spreading across his face, the sorcerer opened the pouch and removed from it a vial identical to the one that Tyrande had seen him use earlier. In fact, not only was the vial the same, but so were contents.
The Well of Eternity might be gone, but Illidan Stormrage had saved a small bit of it.
It’ll work! I know it’ll work! He had felt the Well’s astonishing properties himself. Even so minute an amount would be potent.
The stopper shaped like Queen Azshara once more danced for him before popping off. Letting the stopper fall to the grass, the night elf held the open container over the lake.
He poured the contents into the water.
The lake shimmered where the drops of the Well touched it. The water, originally a calm blue, suddenly glowed intensely where the drops hit. The change spread rapidly, first cutting across to the island, then around it. In but seconds, the entire lake had taken on a rich azure hue that no one could mistake as other than magic.
To Illidan’s heightened senses, the spectacle was even more breathtaking. He had expected a reproduction of the Well, but this was fascinating in itself.
Yet… it could still be so much more.
He reached into the pouch and removed a second vial.
This time, the sorcerer simply tore off the stopper and dumped t
he contents into the lake. As he did, the blue intensified further. Tendrils of raw energy began to play on the surface and Illidan felt a wonderful radiance that he had not experienced since the Well.
His lips parted. He wanted to throw himself into the water, but managed to hold back. His hand slipped to the pouch.
What would a third vial do?
He undid the stopper and started to pour.
“What by the Mother Moon are you doing there?”
Illidan had been so caught up in his efforts that he had failed to notice the approach of others. He spun about, the last vial still in his hand, to face a party of mounted figures, Jarod Shadowsong chief among them.
“Captain…” the sorcerer began.
One of the Highborne glanced past Illidan. “He’s done something to the lake! It — ” The spellcaster’s expression grew awed. “It feels like the Well — “
“Elune preserve us!” bellowed a noble next to Jarod. “He’s resurrecting it!”
The commander dismounted. “Illidan Stormrage! Cease this immediately! If not for your brother, I’d — ”
“My brother…” An imperious fury arose, fueled by his nearness to the enchanted lake. Once more, the power surged through him. He was capable of anything… “Always my precious brother…”
The others dismounted, following Jarod Shadowsong. Their wary expressions made Illidan tense. They wanted to keep him from the lake’s power! He eyed the Highborne, who would certainly attempt to usurp it for themselves…
“No…”
One of the nobles hesitated. “By Elune! What sort of eyes does he have that glow beneath that veil?”
Illidan glared at the Highborne.
Their leader raised a hand in defense. “Look out — ”
Flames erupted around the other sorcerers. They screamed.
Jarod and the nobles charged him. Illidan sneered at the paltry threat and gestured.
The ground beneath them exploded. Jarod was tossed back. The lead noble, Blackforest flew high in the air, finally striking a tree with a resounding crack.
“You stupid fools! You — ”
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